The Sweet Potato Queens' Field Guide to Men by Jill Conner Browne

Author:Jill Conner Browne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9781400082643
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2004-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

9

Enhancements Galore!

Massive amounts of money are spent every year convincing women that men want us to be—or at least look—young, with big, pouty lips (now, there’s something I’ve never understood—who’s ever been attracted to a person who was pouting?), enormous breasts, and a massive head full of preternaturally shining hair. As you may recall from prior perusals of my pages, the distribution of hair has not been fair and equitable among the ranks of the Sweet Potato Queens, and there is no middle ground. This is truly a matter of the Haves and the Have Nots. I place myself in the latter group, and I can tell you, there is no small amount of backbiting over this issue. They have hair, we don’t, and we hate them for it. We hate their hairy guts for it. We wish we had their hair and they had something awful instead—like maybe our hair. That would teach them.

All our pathetic attempts at hair augmentation have failed miserably. There is no product at any price (believe me, we’ve paid plenty) that can deliver any relief, real or imagined. If our four hairs each were the biblical loaves and fishes, the Five Thousand would just have to fill up on water; there is no follicular miracle out there for the likes of us. Many are the promises of the myriad balms and unguents—fine, thin, limp, wispy locks transformed before your very eyes into abundant, thick, bouncy, enviable hair, glorious hair. You might just as well slather that stuff on a frog—it would probably do him as much good as it’s done us. Sigh.

Then we heard about weaves and extensions—actual big hair somehow semipermanently and undetectably attached to our own few hairs. We gazed with unvarnished envy at the hair on the heads of some of our friends, hair that had been bought at the hair store and attached to their own by various means. It looked so good we could not stand it. We were somewhat taken aback by how the stuff felt, though. Oh, it feels fine on top, but if you feel underneath—YOWZA! I can’t even tell you what it feels like under there, but it feels reeeeally bad—millions and millions of little knotty-feeling things. You can absolutely forget about having anybody (including your ownself) run their fingers through your beautiful hair. This was momentarily off-putting to us because, of course, a large part of the pleasure of hair is having it manhandled by actual men, but the lure of the Big Hair was just too strong for us. We were willing to spend the rest of our romantic lives dodging anyone’s attempt at touching our heads, not unlike guys who wear toupees. (You know what that maneuver looks like if you’ve ever been out with a rug-top guy. Your hand gets anywhere near that head and he’s swooping backward and sideways. He has some kind of weird radar for when a hand is approaching that hairpiece, and his body reacts automatically to prevent contact.

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